Tricky Business
by Supervillegirl
Summary: "I have ripped apart the Mystery Spot, burnt it down..." The Trickster tries sometihng new. Oneshot.


Tricky Business

A "Mystery Spot" story

"Huh…" the Trickster said as he mused over Dean's latest death. "The 75th Tuesday. How about we shake things up?"

***************************************************SPN******************************************************

"_Heat of the moment, telling you what your heart meant!"_

Sam's eyes snapped open, and he sat up to look at Dean sitting on the other bed, tying his shoes.

"Rise and shine, Sammy!" Dean called over the song.

Sam rolled his eyes and headed straight into the bathroom for a shower.

_What now?_ Sam thought.

He'd seen Dean die so many ways now. Dean had been shot, run over, crushed, electrocuted, food poisoned, mauled by a retriever, cracked his head open, choked, impaled by an archery arrow, chopped by an axe, drowned in the bathtub (the bathtub, for crying out loud! Sam had made him take a bath the morning after the shower-slip incident.), struck by lightning, fallen into the town's only quarry, gotten locked in a freezer, gotten overwhelmed by the world's quickest rabies virus, stabbed, fallen down a flight of stairs, blown away because of a gas leak and loose wires in the Impala, and Sam's personal favorite (although how he could consider any of these as favorites was beyond him)—the heart attack after Dean's second burger at lunch.

Sam walked out of the bathroom when he was done to find Dean once again digging through his drawers of clothes, trying to find his gun.

Remembering the day when it had gone off in Dean's hand, putting a hole through his forehead, Sam winced.

"Why do you even need that thing to eat breakfast?" asked Sam.

Dean looked at him. "A good hunter is always prepared."

"Just make sure the safety's on," Sam cautioned as Dean found the gun.

"Dude, I think I can handle my own gun," said Dean, beginning to wave it around.

Sam stalked over and grabbed Dean's hand, flicking the safety back on.

"Huh," said Dean, staring at his gun. "That was weird." He looked at Sam. "I thought I'd set it." He shrugged and tucked the gun into his waistband. "Alright, who's ready for some breakfast?"

"As long as you promise not to stuff your face with a bunch of cholesterol," said Sam, heading for the door with Dean.

"Where's the fun in that?" asked Dean as he closed the door behind them.

Sam rolled his eyes as he followed Dean to the Impala. They drove into town to the diner, heading inside.

"Drive safely now, Mr. Pickett," said the cashier, handing the old man his change.

"Yeah, yeah," Mr. Pickett muttered, moving the keys in his hand towards his jacket pocket.

Sam watched him, getting tired of pulling Dean out of that street as the old guy barreled past in his car. Getting an idea, Sam moved a little to his right as he and Dean headed into the restaurant. He shifted his hand a little to the right as his shoulder brushed into the old man. As the old man fumbled with his hand, Sam grabbed the keys from him and put them in his own jacket pocket.

"Can't stay unless you order something, Cal," said Doris. "You know the rules."

Cal put some change on the counter. "Some coffee."

Sam and Dean sat at their usual booth (not that Dean knew it was their usual booth), and Dean looked up at the wall above the counter.

"Hey, Tuesday," smiled Dean. "Pig 'n' a poke." He smiled at Sam with a smirk.

Sam rolled his eyes. _If they don't change the name of that special, I'm gonna start shooting._

"Come on, Sammy," said Dean. "You need to lighten up."

Doris walked up to their table. "You boys ready?"

"Yes," said Dean. "I'll have the special, side of bacon and a coffee."

"I'm not hungry," said Sam.

"Let me know if you change your mind," said Doris, heading off to place their order.

Sam glared at Dean. "How am I supposed to lighten up on a day like this?"

Dean looked around in confusion at the sunny morning and smell of their breakfast cooking. "Um…try opening your eyes?"

"Oh, trust me, they're open," said Sam. "And all I see is the same old diner in the same old town."

Dean frowned. "You wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

"No, I have woken up on the same side of the bed in the same motel room for the past seventy-five mornings," said Sam.

Dean blinked for a moment, trying to figure out what was going on. "Okay…it's…what?"

"Dean, I have lived through seventy-five Tuesdays now," said Sam. "And every Tuesday, you die."

Dean shrugged. "I'm not gonna die. Not today. You feeling okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," said Sam. "Other than reliving the day over and over, I'm fine."

"So, you're stuck in some kind of time loop?" asked Dean. "Like Groundhog Day?"

"Yes," said Sam.

"I don't know, Sam," said Dean.

"Well, I do," said Sam. "Trust me, I have watched you die seventy-four times now."

"Oh, come on," said Dean. "Are you sure it wasn't another—"

"It was not a psychic premonition thing," said Sam in a monotone. "Oh, and the waitress is gonna drop the hot sauce."

Dean frowned as Doris brought their food over—well, Dean's food. She set the plate down in front of Dean.

"Coffee, black," said Doris. "And some hot sauce for the—"

The hot sauce toppled off the tray, and Sam—still staring at Dean—reached his hand out and caught the hot sauce, putting it on the table in front of Dean. Dean's eyes widened.

"Oops!" said Doris. She then saw that Sam had caught it. "Thanks." She walked away.

"And, no, it was **not** reflexes," said Sam as Dean opened his mouth. Dean's jaw snapped closed again.

"So, uh…you're stuck in Groundhog Day…" said Dean. "Why? What's behind it?"

"I think it's the Mystery Spot," said Sam. "Something has to be going on there. First that guy disappears there, and now you keep dying?"

"But that doesn't mean it's the Mystery Spot," said Dean.

"We were there when you died the first time," said Sam.

"We were?" asked Dean.

"We were investigating it, and the owner caught us and blew you away," said Sam. "It's the only common denominator I can think of."

Dean nodded. "Alright, alright, we'll go tonight after they close, get ourselves a nice long look."

"No, we can't," said Sam.

"Why not?" asked Dean.

"Did you not hear anything I said?" said Sam. "The owner caught us and shot you."

"Okay, we'll go now," said Dean.

"No," said Sam. "The guy doesn't know anything, and there's nothing wrong with the building so far as I can tell."

"Well, what's our next step?" asked Dean.

"Well, one thing I haven't tried yet is getting rid of it," said Sam.

"Getting rid of it?" asked Dean.

"Yeah," said Sam. "We'll get the owner out tonight and then torch it."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Torch it? Isn't that a little extreme?"

"Dean, that place has been killing you…non-stop," said Sam. "Do you want to get rid of it, or not?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine." He picked up his fork and began eating. "We'll torch it. Doing the tourist world a favor, if you ask me."

*********************************************************SPN*************************************************************************

Sam and Dean waited in the Impala on the edge of the woods, watching as the owner got into his car and peeled away from the building.

"He bought it," said Dean. "Sweet."

They climbed out of the car and circled around to the trunk, pulling out cans of gasoline.

"Alright, let's go," said Dean.

"No," said Sam, putting a hand on Dean's chest. "You're staying here."

"What?" asked Dean. "Why?"

"Need I remind you that building has it out for you," said Sam.

"'That building has it out for me'?" said Dean. "Come on, Sam…"

"Dean, I'm serious," said Sam. "Stay here. I can't risk you getting caught in the fire."

"Dude, I have been playing with matches since I was seven," said Dean. "I can handle myself."

"Not this time," said Sam. "You stay here. Let me burn the building."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine."

Sam took the cans from Dean and approached the building. He glanced behind him to see Dean still leaning against the Impala. Sam continued towards the building, setting the gas cans on the ground. He checked his pocket for the lighter and brought a gas can inside. He dowsed the place, coating the walls and floors with gasoline. He went outside and used the rest of the gas cans to dowse the outside of the building. He pulled out a lighter and threw it on the gas trail leading to the building. The flames licked over the surface of the building, slowly building into a bonfire.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief, turning towards the Impala…to see Dean gone.

Sam froze, spinning back towards the building. _No…it couldn't be…Why would he go in there without telling me?_

"Dean!" Sam yelled. He heard nothing. "DEAN!"

Sam listened closely, hearing sounds of struggle…from inside the building. Sam found a space in the doorway and darted inside, searching the rooms as he shielded his eyes.

"Dean!" Sam called, coughing.

Dean didn't respond, but Sam could hear him yelling in pain.

Sam followed the yells, finding Dean in a room, pinned under a ceiling support beam…flames engulfing him.

"DEAN!" Sam yelled, running towards him and pulling off his jacket.

Sam flung the jacket onto Dean, batting out the flames. Dean struggled and screamed underneath the jacket. When the flames were out, Sam pulled the jacket off.

"Oh, God, Dean…" said Sam.

Dean's skin was burned badly…all over. His hair was completely singed off and his clothes were almost burned to a crisp. He was still yelling and groaning in pain.

"Dean, why did you come in?" Sam asked.

Dean, of course, was still too much in pain to pay attention. Sam went to work moving the beam off of Dean's waist. Once it was off, Sam put an arm under his knees and back. Dean screamed in pain as Sam touched him.

"Sorry, Dean," said Sam. "I'll make it quick."

Sam pulled Dean into his arms, straightening up and rushing towards the doorway. He dodged the flames and smoke, heading for the front doorway. He felt certain that just as he reached the door, something would happen that would rip Dean out of his arms and back into the flames. He reached the doorway and darted out into the night. He ran towards the Impala, stopping and looking back toward the building to see it collapsing in the fire.

Sam watched it for a moment before Dean's groans came to his ears. Sam rushed to the Impala, putting Dean in the passenger seat. Dean's eyes were closed as he tried to breathe through the pain, his arms and legs trembling as he tried not to move. Sam ran around to the driver's side, peeling away from the building. He rushed towards the hospital, speeding along the roads.

He had no idea what had happened back there. Dean hadn't died in the fire; he was still alive—albeit in horrible pain, but still alive—and Sam hadn't woken up that morning. But did that mean he would die from his burns? Was Sam still destined to lose his brother and live this day over again? But the Mystery Spot was gone—burnt to a crisp. But had it already done its damage?

Sam pulled up to the ER, rushing around to the passenger side. He pulled Dean out, and Dean yelled in pain again.

"Sorry, Dean," said Sam. He ran inside the lobby. "I need help!"

A nurse ran over to him. "What happened?"

"He was caught in a fire," said Sam. "He got pinned."

"Hurry," said the nurse, leading them towards a gurney down the hall. Sam set Dean on the gurney, and the nurse hurried them towards the ER. "What's his name?"

"Dean," said Sam. "I'm his brother Sam."

"Sam, we need to take it from here," said the nurse.

"But he's my—"

"I promise you he's in good hands," said the nurse. "Please wait in the waiting room."

Sam leaned down towards Dean's head. "You're gonna be okay, Dean. I'm so sorry."

The nurse shook Sam off as she wheeled Dean into the ER. Sam stood there for a moment before walking back towards the waiting room. Another nurse walked up to him.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but we need these filled out," said the nurse.

Sam nodded as he dazedly grabbed the clipboard. He sat down in the waiting room, beginning to fill them out.

**********************************************SPN*****************************************************

"Mr. Simmons?" asked a nurse.

Sam looked up at her, standing. "Yeah? Is he okay? Is he gonna be okay?"

"He'll be fine," said the nurse.

Sam breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Of course, he's in pain, and his burns are extensive, but…there's a good chance he's gonna make it," said the nurse.

Sam looked at her. "A chance he's gonna make it? So, he might die?"

The nurse hesitated. "Maybe. But he's very young and in good health. There's a very good chance he'll pull through."

Sam nodded, knowing that in Dean's case, there probably wasn't a good chance he would pull through. "Can I see him?"

"Well, he's under isolation precaution," said the nurse. "You'll be able to see him and talk to him, but you can't go in the room. We want to keep the chance of infection down."

Sam nodded. "I understand."

The nurse led him down the hall towards the ICU to a room that looked like the hospital rooms on "House." It had a glass wall leading to the hallway with a sliding glass door. Dean lay in the hospital bed, covered in bandages. An IV—several, in fact—led to his arms. One was a bag of normal saline to prevent dehydration from the burns, one was antibiotics to prevent infections that were bound to happen, and another was morphine for the pain.

Sam didn't want to think about how much pain Dean was in. With all the other deaths Dean went through, Sam never worried about his pain. Only several lasted long enough to feel pain, and at the time, Sam—and maybe even Dean—wasn't too worried about Dean's pain. Now, however, death was waiting to take Dean, which left him with enough time to feel the pain.

A suited up nurse (gloves, isolation gown, mask, hairnet, shoe coverings) stood by Dean's bed, talking with him and taking care of him.

Sam glanced down at a panel on the glass wall. He pressed the button that would allow Sam to talk to them.

"Dean?" said Sam.

The nurse looked up at Sam as Dean's figure slowly turned his head. Sam could see pain-filled eyes look at him. The nurse looked down at Dean, asking him something. Dean nodded a little, and the nurse reached over to the wall, pressing a button on a similar panel.

Dean's mouth slowly opened. "S-Sammy?"

Sam smiled at him. "Hey, Dean." He waited for a moment. "How do you feel?"

"Better," Dean answered. "Still hurts, though."

Sam winced. "I'm sorry, Dean. I should've—"

"No," said Dean, wincing. "Wasn't your fault."

Sam glanced at the nurse, hoping Dean wasn't too out of it from pain medicine that he would blurt something out. "Why did you go in, Dean?"

Dean looked at him. "I thought I heard someone around back. When I walked around, I heard someone inside…and it wasn't you. I thought someone might have still been inside the building. I went inside, and that beam collapsed on me. And then I saw the flames…"

"Dean, I'm so sorry," said Sam. "I should've checked to make sure you were still outside. And then I wouldn't have…" he wanted to say he wouldn't have lit the fire, but the nurse was standing there, "I would have checked the building."

"Not your fault, Sam," said Dean. "My fault. I shouldn't have gone in…especially with my luck lately."

Sam chuckled a little. "Dean, if there's anything you need, just ask."

"How about a sedative," said Dean. "Knock me out until I get better."

Sam laughed. "I'll see what I can do about that. Maybe they can break out the good stuff."

Dean nodded, closing his eyes as he tried to get some rest to get away from the pain.

Sam watched him for a moment. "I'll be in the waiting room, okay?"

Dean nodded. "Good night, Sammy."

"Good night, Dean."

Sam turned off the com and walked back to the waiting room, looking at his watch. It was 11:00 p.m. It wouldn't be long before Dean's body gave out and Sam found himself back in the motel room that morning.

Sam sat down in the waiting room, leaning back in the seat and linking his hands together. He stared at the floor and waited for the inevitable.

****************************************************SPN*****************************************************************

A nurse walked over to Sam, nudging his shoulder.

Sam looked up at her. "Is he okay?"

The nurse nodded. "He's still in pain, obviously, but he seems to be doing better."

Sam nodded as he watched her walk away. She passed under the clock, which held Sam's gaze.

_That can't be right,_ Sam thought, staring at the time. _It can't be right._

Sam glanced down at his own watch, but sure enough, it held the same time as the hospital clock: 12:04 a.m.

Sam's gaze slowly went from his watch up to the rest of the room. _It's Wednesday…_

Sam looked down at himself, double-checking to make sure he wasn't lying in that motel bed.

_Did we actually make it? Did burning down the building actually work?_

Sam bolted up from his chair, rushing towards Dean's room. He stood at the glass wall, watching Dean's heart monitor.

_It's still beeping…Dean's still alive…and it's Wednesday…_

Sam stepped away from the room and fell back against the wall opposite the glass. He slid to the floor, staring at Dean as he let out a breath of relief.

_It's over…It's actually over…_

He couldn't believe they were finally out of the time loop. Sam didn't have to wake up in the motel room to that ridiculous song and watch Dean die anymore.

"Sir?" asked a nurse as she approached.

Sam didn't pay her any attention as the relief swept through him and he collapsed to the floor.

**************************************************************SPN****************************************************

After that first glorious day, Sam watched over Dean as he healed. It took a couple months—three, to be exact—but Dean finally made a full recovery. Sam had been let into his room after the first month, and he had immediately rushed over to Dean's bed and hugged him—until Dean groaned in pain. Sam let him go, and they talked for a while. Dean asked about the time loop and the Tuesdays he couldn't remember, and Sam told him all about the hell they'd both been through those seventy-four Tuesdays.

At three months, Dean had healed wonderfully. His hair had, gratefully, grown back perfectly, and he had minimal scars, thanks to the skin grafts. The doctors were pleased that no infections had set in, and they were releasing him.

"Thank God," muttered Dean as Sam helped him into a wheelchair in his room. "I've had enough of this place to last me a lifetime."

"Be grateful, Dean," said Sam. "You could have died that night."

"Like I haven't before," Dean muttered so only Sam could hear.

"Shut up," said Sam as he wheeled Dean out to the Impala.

Dean, of course, had refused the wheelchair once they were out of the hospital, and had walked to the car. Sam drove them to a motel in town—thankfully, a different one than they had last time—and Dean went inside to sleep.

The next day, Dean had a healthy helping of breakfast at a diner—again, different than the one they'd eaten at last time. They spent the day just hanging out before they would hit the road to find another hunt. That night, Dean and Sam were at a bar hanging out when Dean suddenly rushed to the restroom and puked up his dinner.

Sam followed him, immediately concerned. "You okay?"

Dean pushed himself back up to his feet. "Yeah." He looked pale.

"You sure?" asked Sam. "Maybe we should go back to the hospital."

"Sam," said Dean. "It's just a stomach bug. I probably ate something bad. I feel fine."

"You don't look fine," said Sam.

"Well, you try getting your entire body burned to a crisp and see if you look peachy," muttered Dean. Sam looked down at the floor. "Hey, I'm sorry. I just…I promise I'm fine."

Sam nodded. "Alright, but anything else goes wrong, we're going to the hospital."

Dean nodded. "Deal."

The next day, they were headed out of town in the Impala, off to the next hunt. Dean had his jacket off, his boots off, the windows rolled down and the AC on—and it was only April. Not to mention it was a cold winter that year, so they were having a cold snap.

"Dean, are you okay?" asked Sam as he shivered in his jackets in the passenger seat.

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Dean, despite the sweat rolling down his temples.

"You sure?" asked Sam. "Because you're acting like it's July."

"So?"

"So, it's 43 degrees outside," said Sam. "I'm a freaking popsicle here."

Dean glanced at him. "You just don't have enough meat on your bones. You gotta stop eating all that health food."

Sam looked closely at him. "I don't think that's it, Dean. You look like you have a fever."

"I don't," Dean insisted.

"Dude, your eyes are bloodshot, you're sweating, you look pale, and your hands are trembling," said Sam.

Dean looked down at his left hand as he raised it. "Huh. What do you know?" Dean looked over at Sam. "It is trembling."

Dean's eyes rolled up into his head, and he passed out at the wheel.

"Dean!" Sam yelled.

He quickly slid over to the middle of the seat, slamming his foot on the brake. He put the emergency brake on, shaking Dean.

"Dean!"

****************************************SPN***********************************

"Mr. Simmons?" asked a nurse.

Sam turned. "Yes?"

He had turned the car around and taken Dean back to the hospital he'd taken him the first time. After all, they already knew his case.

"Is Dean alright?" asked Sam.

"Your brother seems to have developed an infection," said the nurse. "He must have picked it up while the burns were healing. We're not sure how it escaped our blood work on him. We should have caught it."

"Well, we can't do anything about that now," said Sam. "What matters now is treating it." He nurse looked sadly up at him. "What?"

"The infection has reached his brain," said the nurse. "I'm sorry, but it's late. There's nothing we can do."

"Nothing you can do?" asked Sam.

The nurse shook her head. "I'm sorry." She walked away.

Sam rushed back to Dean's room, walking up to the bed. He was awake now, hooked up to an IV.

Dean looked at Sam when he walked in. "Look, before you say anything, this is not your fault."

"Not my fault?" asked Sam. "I'm the one who lit the damn fire. Of course it's my fault."

"Hey, it was a freak infection," said Dean. "Who knew?"

Sam sat down next to the bed. "I should've." He hesitated. "I thought I got it. The Mystery Spot burned down, and…it's not Tuesday anymore. We made it out of the time loop. How could you still be dying?"

"Sam, you probably won't wake up back on that Tuesday," said Dean. "We made it out of the loop, and now I just happen to be dying."

"But—"

"Hey," said Dean. "It was gonna happen one way or another. Better than hellhounds, right?"

Sam looked sadly at Dean. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"I was going for 'yeah,'" said Dean. He looked down at his hands. "Look, Sam, I know this isn't the way either of us wanted this life to turn out. The point is, it did. So, let's not dwell on it, okay? Can we just…can we just watch the game or something? Maybe do some shots?"

Sam looked down at his hands and then back up at Dean, nodding. "Okay."

***********************************************SPN*********************************************

Sam glanced from the TV over to Dean, whose eyes were starting to droop. Sam grabbed Dean's hand.

"Dean?" said Sam.

Dean looked up at him, eyes almost closed.

"Dean, don't go," said Sam.

Dean smiled at him. "Hey…at least…it didn't hurt…"

Dean's eyes slid closed, and Sam dropped his head onto the bed in sorrow.

"_Heat of the moment, telling you what your heart meant!"_

Sam's eyes snapped open and he sat up on the motel bed, glancing over at Dean.

"Rise and shine, Sammy!" Dean called, tying his shoes.

Sam dropped his head into his hands. _This cannot be happening…_


End file.
